[ Right. Iorveth keeps forgetting that they're supposed to be playing at Cormyrean semi-nobility: a label that Astarion wears much more convincingly than Iorveth. He gravitates over to Astarion's side, keeping close while he gauges the shoemaker's placid scrutiny.
"What would Cormyreans know about Waterdhavian craftsmanship?", the man replies, disarmingly calmly. "What matters is the make of the item, not the look of it."
Ah. One of those. Iorveth isn't inclined to disagree with Thentavva the Third on this point, and understands how it is that this business has lasted as long as it has. Folding his hands across his chest, Iorveth tips his head and hikes his chin, imperious as ever. ]
Why sell yourself short, beloved? Seven gold pieces is too inexpensive for you.
[ He reaches into his pocket, and tosses the shoemaker a leather purse. One that he pilfered from a Zhent the night prior, full of gold.
(They may or may not be counterfeit. Iorveth hasn't bothered to check.) ]
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"What would Cormyreans know about Waterdhavian craftsmanship?", the man replies, disarmingly calmly. "What matters is the make of the item, not the look of it."
Ah. One of those. Iorveth isn't inclined to disagree with Thentavva the Third on this point, and understands how it is that this business has lasted as long as it has. Folding his hands across his chest, Iorveth tips his head and hikes his chin, imperious as ever. ]
Why sell yourself short, beloved? Seven gold pieces is too inexpensive for you.
[ He reaches into his pocket, and tosses the shoemaker a leather purse. One that he pilfered from a Zhent the night prior, full of gold.
(They may or may not be counterfeit. Iorveth hasn't bothered to check.) ]